by Gigi Fenster
Morris won’t relent and he won’t tell her why, but he has a good reason. If he sleeps in his clothes he’ll be ready to leave as soon as he wakes up. And if he’s ready to leave there’s less danger of his father going without him. He can be at his father’s side in a second. He’ll be waiting in the car while his father’s still packing it.
‘Pyjamas are for night time. Clothes for day time. Come on, Morris, don’t be silly.’
Morris holds his arms stiffly on either side, pinning the blanket down over his body. His mother will have to wrestle the blanket off him if she wants to get to his shorts.
‘Morris, please, Morris. This is silly. You’ll disturb your father.’
‘But I want to wear them,’ he whispers.
‘Morris,’ his mother whispers back. Then she suddenly relents and with a shrugged, ‘Well, if you must you must,’ gets up to leave the room. Before she closes the door, Morris hears his father approaching.
His mother comes back later to kiss him on the forehead and tell him to get a good night’s sleep, but by then any triumph he felt at getting his own way has given way to a strange feeling of homesickness, as though he’s missing his mother before he’s even left her. As if it would be better if his father did go without him.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to go. And he doesn’t want his mother to come with. This is to be a boys’ weekend. Father and son. Man and man. Morris has boasted at school about this weekend, couldn’t sleep for the wanting of it. But when his mother bends down to kiss his forehead he wants to throw his arms around her and cry, ‘Keep me here. With you.’
It doesn’t help that she looks sad, or maybe she’s cross about his nagging. ‘I’ll lie still,’ he promises her, ‘so that I don’t crumple them.’
At the door she turns back to look at him. She stands there so long it feels as if she’s not expecting to see him again for the longest time, as if she won’t be there when they get back from their trip.
‘Go to sleep now,’ she says at last. ‘You’ve got an early start in the morning.’
Morris closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but his mother looked sad and the shorts are uncomfortable. He’s thinking about the story his father told him earlier and there’s a song going round in his head. Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give.
That song—it’s from the movie Daddy Long Legs. Wendy and I watched it on DVD. When we were doing our Oldie Mouldie movie marathon. Not so very long ago.
Not so very long ago Morris paused at his front door. Put his bag down. Unbuttoned his jacket to get the key from his inside pocket. Buttoned it up again. Put his key to the front door and found that it was off the latch, that a simple push with his shoulder would open it.
There was a part of Morris that would have liked, at the end of the working day, to have the front door opened for him by his wife. That was how he’d imagined married life when he was younger—a wife who would take his hat at the front door, hand his briefcase to their son and give him maybe a small peck on the cheek.
Sadie might have met him at the door if Morris had asked her to, but she would have made a song and dance of it. There would have been hands smelling of garlic all over his suit, music jangling in the background, and something mocking in her tone as she said, ‘Hi honey, you’re home.’
Maybe Morris never really wanted it anyway. Putting his key in the latch made him feel like the man of the house, a provider, an owner. If Sadie and the children opened the door for him he’d feel like a guest. Also, he’d have to give up the moment of pause that he allowed himself every evening when he reached his front door, pulled out his key and drew himself erect.
Anyway, the children were long gone by then, and it wasn’t as if Sadie was suddenly going to start waiting for him at the front door in an apron. Even if she owned an apron.
Even if she could still stand.
Not so long ago, Morris pushed the front door open, put his briefcase down and closed the door behind him. From the spare room came the sound of music and talking. He hung his jacket on the hook, called out, ‘Hi, it’s me,’ and wondered whether he should leave his laptop in his study or in the kitchen. Kitchen, he thought, it’s warm in there. But first he’d better go to the spare room and see who was with Sadie. He should probably offer to make them tea.
Wendy was in the bed next to Sadie, lying close. Sadie’s eyes were closed. She was wearing a garish red scarf that seemed to mock her sunken face. Morris wished she wouldn’t wear it. He wouldn’t mind her bald head.
Wendy lifted the remote to pause the DVD.
‘We’re watching golden oldies. We’ve had a marathon of them. This is number three—Daddy Long Legs.’
She pointed to the screen where a man was frozen, mid-leap, his edges out of focus, his face a blur.
‘That’s Fred Astaire,’ Wendy said. ‘Sadie’s developed a mid-life crush on him.’
They both looked at Sadie. She stirred, murmured, opened her eyes. ‘We’re watching oldie mouldies.’
‘Golden oldies,’ said Wendy, ‘like us.’
‘Moulden oldies,’ said Sadie, ‘like me.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ said Morris.
Wendy replied, ‘Nah. I’ve got my wine and Sadie’s got her meds.’
Morris closed the door behind him.
Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give.
Morris must get a good night’s sleep because tomorrow he’s going tramping with his father. Only the two of them. But he’s got a song going round and round in his head and what if he oversleeps? If he oversleeps his father might go without him. He must go to sleep but how can you sleep when your shorts are digging into your waist and what if he’s forgotten something?
Something important, like the torch. What if his father really needs the torch, keeps on looking for it—Where’s that blasted torch. Pearl? I’ve looked everywhere. The boy must have lost the blasted torch.
If he doesn’t sleep he’ll be too tired and he won’t be able to keep up with his father. Then he’ll fall behind and his father won’t hear him calling because he’ll be marching forwards, further, looking for the torch, looking for some peace and quiet. Something’s gotta give.
Something’s gotta give—busting into the kitchen where Morris was pouring himself a glass of juice. Wendy must have turned the volume up on the DVD. They were probably singing along—Sadie’s mouth just moving, Wendy loud enough for the both of them.
He would have liked to ask them to turn the volume down. He would have liked to tell them that he didn’t like that song. But then they’d ask him what he had against it. It was a classic. What was not to like about it?
He didn’t have a reason not to like it. It bothered him. That was all. They’d never accept that for an answer.
Sadie would say something like, ‘Don’t deny me this pleasure. I have so few pleasures left.’ Then they’d both laugh and cry and he’d stand in the doorway.
He turned his computer on.
Later Wendy came in and said the DVD was over and Sadie was dozing. She said there was some soup in the fridge. Debbie had brought it. She’d warm it up for them.
Morris turned from his computer. ‘I’ll do it. You stay with Sadie.’
He carried the soup through on a tray. Wendy sat on the bed next to Sadie, and tried to get her to eat a few spoonfuls. ‘Debbie made it. Imagine the farible if she finds out you wouldn’t eat it.’
She removed the scarf from Sadie’s head so that the edges didn’t fall in the soup.
Sadie tipped towards the spoon, and her head, as it came into the light, was smooth and shiny and almost perfect. It reminded Morris of someone else. Maybe a character from a forgotten film.
He pulled a chair out from the dressing table and turned it to face into the room so that he could see Sadie. But it was difficult balancing the bowl on his knee and he almost spilled his soup. ‘I’ll just … eat at the table.’ He turned the chair back and sat facing the mirror t
o eat.
Did you notice how Wendy and I were together on the bed? How you were sitting at a distance?
What did you want? I wasn’t going to get on to the bed with Wendy on it. That would have been too …
Okay, I know. All three of us would have been a bit weird. But did you see how she touched me? Wendy was right, you know, you aren’t much of a toucher. What do you have against touching? Was it your mother? Intimacy issues maybe.
Intimacy issues. What are you talking about? My mother and I were fine. Just fine.
So sue me for a bit of pop psychology. Did you hear the one about the Jewish woman whose son’s in therapy?
In therapy?
It’s a joke. There’s this Jewish woman and she says to her friend, ‘My son’s seeing the best shrink in town. It’s costing him two hundred dollars an hour.’ ‘Two hundred dollars an hour!’ says the friend. ‘That’s a lot of money.’ ‘I know it is. And you know what he talks about for that whole hour? Me!’ It’s a joke. You can laugh.
My mother and I were fine. We never had, what did you call them?
Intimacy issues.
Intimacy issues.
Fine, then give me an example of intimacy. You and your mother. One example. Only one. Give me one and I’ll leave you alone.
Leave me alone?
One example. That’s all I ask.
One example? I can give you plenty. Well, the same example.
The same example?
Every day. Sadie. The same example. Repetition and consistency. That’s intimacy.
Listen to him—the intimacy expert.
It’s late in the afternoon. Morris is nine years old. He’s hunched over his desk, bent into homework which is never ending. He’s supposed to be checking his work for spelling errors, but how can he? If he knew they were errors he wouldn’t have made them in the first place. It’s been hours and hours since he pulled out his English book. His room is getting cold.
Pearl opens the door. ‘It’s nearly 5.15.’
Morris is simultaneously relieved and frustrated at this news. Relieved because it means release from the work before him. Frustrated because he has achieved so little since he sat down. There’s still so much to do. He hasn’t even started on the volcano project. It’s not fair. Others got to do the project at school, when they’d finished correcting their writing, and here he sits, writing still uncorrected. Project still waiting.
‘Fetch the ironing board,’ says his mother.
The ironing board stands between the wall and the sink. It’s wedged into a tight space and is liable, when pulled out, to fold in on itself, catch his fingers, bang his nails against its wood. Morris must be careful.
He staggers, rests the board on the floor, changes his grip, and carries it proud and straight into the kitchen.
The kitchen is warm. The dinner’s in the oven. He sets up the ironing board at exactly the right height.
‘Thank you,’ says his mother. She’s carrying the laundry basket. ‘Turn on the wireless. It’s just about 5.15.’
‘It is 5.15,’ says the radio announcer. ‘Is everyone sitting ready?’
Morris nods.
‘In today’s episode of Children’s Session …’
Morris sinks into the settee, rests his feet on his mother’s foot stool. Homework project be damned. His mother is doing the ironing.
Pearl is ironing a serviette which she will roll in a serviette ring and put in a drawer. When they are sitting at the dinner table, she will pull the serviette from its ring, place it on her lap and smooth it out. After dinner she will lay her serviette on the table, flat against the tablecloth. She will fold it, flatten it, fold it again before rolling it back into its ring.
She will run her hand along the tablecloth, collecting crumbs into a small pile, smoothing the cloth as she goes.
She will shake the tablecloth outside, then bring it back, spread it over the table, and bend past the chairs to make sure it is flat, crisp, smooth.
Later, when the dishes have been washed and Morris has cleaned his face and brushed his teeth, they will turn the wireless back on. At 7.30 there’s a serial. Pearl will do her sewing and she will rest her feet on the foot stool. Morris might, if the evening is cool, take the soft blue blanket from the linen cupboard and wrap it round himself. The blanket will smell of the lavender and cloves which his mother uses to keep the moths away.
Sometimes, at school, Morris would overhear kids talking about the programmes. Once, on the tram, he’d found himself joining in their discussion, expressing an opinion, surprising them with his memory of tiny details. ‘The woman who won a scrubbing brush turned down seven pounds ten to get it.’
‘Ha,’ a boy said. ‘You just won me a bet.’ He grinned at Morris, then turned to his friend. ‘Seven pounds and ten shillings to be exact.’
‘So what?’ said his friend. ‘It doesn’t matter how much she turned down. The point is she shouldn’t have kept going for the bag. She should’ve taken the money.’
He turned to Morris. ‘She should’ve taken the money, shouldn’t she?’
‘I, um—’
Of all the wireless shows that Morris and his mother listened to he liked ‘It’s in the Bag’ least of all. His mother didn’t love it either. She complained that the questions were too easy, but for Morris it was the terrible stress of making the correct choice of prize, the horrible loss at getting it wrong. All those voices from the audience shouting, ‘Take the money. The bag. The bag.’ The too-friendly host saying, ‘Make up your mind now, Mrs Deans. You have to choose one.’ Just last week a man had lost out on a washing machine by choosing ten pounds. How would he explain that to his wife?
‘I prefer John Maybury,’ said Morris, but the boys didn’t hear him. They were talking about rugby, which Morris did not play.
It’s because you’re Jewish.
Jewish?
Jews don’t get rugby. Or sports more generally. We’re genetically predisposed against sports.
I like rugby.
No you don’t.
And cricket.
You’re genetically disposed against that too. Anyway, I don’t want to speak about rugby or cricket. I’m genetically predisposed against them. I want to talk to you about your mother and intimacy.
I’ve told you about my mother and intimacy.
Intimacy? You call that intimacy?
Oh Sadie, let it go.
Listening to the radio. Ironing and smoothing. Being allowed to wrap yourself up in a blanket if you’re lucky? A bit anal, don’t you think, your mother. All that smoothing and ironing. Ironing and smoothing. A bit uptight maybe?
She liked things to be smooth. Even. That’s all. Rachel too. She likes things smooth. You saw her bed. And her linen.
Cloves and lavender. Morris can almost smell them.
Sure I saw Rachel’s bed. And the linen. Not sure that I liked what I saw though. Where does it end, all that smoothing?’
It ended, in the case of Morris’s mother, in an old persons’ home in Levin.
Joan chose Pearl’s new home. It had to be done quickly. It couldn’t wait for Morris to finish his exams and return to Wellington. And they certainly wouldn’t want him doing anything foolish like missing classes. Not in his final year.
Pearl had a stroke. Two neighbours coming home from work saw the milk and paper still at the gate. They banged on the door but got no reply. Eventually they opened the front door and walked in. She was clutching the iron when they found her. She’d fallen over and the ironing board had somehow landed on top of her. They had to pry her fingers off the iron.
They could thank God that the neighbours cared, said Joan. Cared enough to go and investigate when they saw the milk left uncollected. And they could thank God that the iron pulled out of its socket when she fell. And they could thank God that the neighbours had the good sense to go in. Who knows what would have happened if they hadn’t been so quick thinking? Joan made biscuits for the neighbours. Morris might want to go
over and thank them himself when he was back in Wellington.
Norman and Joan made a special trip to Christchurch to discuss the matter with Morris. They took him to a hotel restaurant.
Norman waited until their orders were placed and the waiter gone, then he laid his hands on the table before him. ‘We think it would be best if we moved your mother to a home in Levin, close to us.’
Joan said, ‘I can help to look after her. We can go on outings together. It will be a pleasure. You’ll be starting work soon. Honestly, a pleasure.’
They looked at Morris. Did they fear an outburst? Is that why they chose a public place for their announcement?
Norman said, ‘A decision has to be made soon, and you still have six months of university ahead of you.’
Joan said, ‘It will be nice for Pearl to be close to us.’
‘Very nice,’ said Norman.
Joan said, ‘You’ll be moving back to Wellington soon and the drive will be a doddle for you. You’re such a good driver.’
‘And don’t worry about the cost of petrol. Or any costs. We’ll have to sell the house, of course, unless you …’
Morris excused himself to go to the toilet.
‘Oh my God, Norman, follow him.’
‘No, no, Joanie, let the boy be for now.’
Morris washed his hands, looked at his face in the mirror and asked himself what sort of reaction they were expecting from him.
Think, Morris, think.
Maybe you’re supposed to feel insulted. Enraged that they should imagine you can’t look after your own mother. Maybe they want you to refuse point blank, to say that you are your mother’s son and she is your responsibility. Maybe they want to be able to explain to you slowly, as if to a child, why this really is a good idea.
You’re being ridiculous, Morris told his reflection. Why would they want that? They want you to be grateful. Grateful to them for assuming the burden.